


The Thieving Crow

by CloverTheGrand



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Loving Vincent (2017)
Genre: Auvers-sur-Oise, Chance Meetings, Crow Crowley (Good Omens), Dodged Friendship, Gen, Historical, Historical Omens, Melancholy, No beta we fall like Crowley, POV Crowley (Good Omens), POV First Person, Poetry, The major character death is for Van Gogh, Villanelle, poem, some flies die too I suppose plz don't read this Beelzebub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:20:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22290193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloverTheGrand/pseuds/CloverTheGrand
Summary: "He looked so... happy that this dirty crow had come in close. Didn't care that it ran off with his lunch. And I thought to myself: how lonely is this guy that even a thieving crow brightens up his day?"
Relationships: Vincent Van Gogh & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	The Thieving Crow

**Author's Note:**

> Crowley was going to peck at Vincent’s lunch as a prank, but I decided that it was too out of character. Hence, for the sake of this fic, the boatman who described the crow scene just remembered it a tad wrong. For anyone who hasn't seen "Loving Vincent" yet, this is what this poem is based off of https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GqOgokKxT-s&t=45s

In scalding Summer’s blaze, this artist rests,   
And watch his paintings dry on damp Oise banks.  
The sun spoils his apple and maize grits.

Those flies, upon his lunch they’ll make a mess!  
Yet still Monsieur Bohemian is blank,   
His visage tense. An odd paint stroke, I guessed.

Into an inky coat of down, I slipped,  
A form to fly down and kill flies with pecks,  
Although the man would sneer at this foul guest.

But then he watches me, curious, content.  
I am not sure if I am used to that.  
It’s strange to not be booted like a pest. 

Next day, he comes with food for me to taste.  
He swats away flies while he snacks and waits.  
He’s eating now. My job's done, so I left.

The man, Van Gogh, does die a lonesome death.  
As I gaze at his art and gallery plaques,  
I thought: a fool I am, I should’ve stayed, at least.   
For I, too, was poisoned by solitude’s zest.


End file.
